Apricots
A few blocks off the plaza,
in the Santa Fe evening light
the color of brandy,
on the street below the branches
of the tree, they glowed in rosy,
yellow hues as if a god
had ripped the sundown, rolled it
into fuzzy, dimpled balls,
and flung them to the ground.
Fast as we could, deep
into the fabric of our shorts,
we crammed them till our pockets
sagged, and lumbered down
the darkening street
like lumpy angels, holy
with the light of apricots
Larry D. Thomas
Posted over on Larry D. Thomas Blog Site
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